in-a-different-way - Tumblr blog

[in-a-different-way]

i have spent a few days listening to the music you like. you have a tattoo of the band's logo on your ribs. you got it when you were still kind of a kid. my first tattoo was a bird instead. i did the math - we got our first tattoos in the same calendar year. isn't that kind of cool.

my mom loves hallmark movies, so i grew up thinking love would look like a firework. it feels like one, after all. it's just that my house wasn't safe. i thought love was a weapon, could be pointed at your eyes. could lose a finger to it, or teeth. my father used to say passion is everything. i thought that meant constant fighting was a good thing. i thought that meant love looked like a week of bickering, because it was worth the the weekend's boombox apology. i thought quiet love was boring. i thought love had to blot out everything, compel the body and the mind like puppetry. i thought love looks like ruining your own dinner table - but at least you set a feast.

but love looks like a scarf. your hands smoothing it down my chest, being sure each of the edges are tucked in, worried about my asthma attacks being cold-activated. i race you while i'm wearing heels, you hold my hand to guide me downhill while walking my dog. we dance in my living room to waltz of the flowers, i show you how to hold your arms in proper ballet port de bras. you write a song about looking out of my window while the snow falls. i ask you to text my friends back while i'm driving. you play dj in the front seat. somewhere on route 93, we start murmuring about secret things.

oh. there is a difference between peace and dispassion. it was never that i feared quiet, it's that i didn't know what safe felt like. i liked the chaos because it was familiar, not because it was kind. i think i used to fear the word wife. i didn't like the idea of long, lonely days and being yelled at for small things. i didn't like the idea of sacrificing my one beautiful life.

you meet my friends and make a point to learn things about them. we both get excited about the other person's passions. you read my book for hours, squinting at the small words. i try to understand basic guitar information. we talk for four hours on the phone while i string together a garland. we talk for six hours while you write a poem. i save a pintrest tip for the summer about making paper kites. i plan us a week-long trip to maine, map out my favorite places for an eventual hike. you fall asleep on the ride home, and i turn down the radio so it won't wake you up. your quiet hands fold over mine.

when i look up, the stars are brighter. how carefully you've woven gold into the corners of my life. when i move, i feel some part of my soul reflected back onto you.

oh, love is not a net. it's a blanket.

[in-a-different-way]

it's just that sometimes you have to love a thing including the ways that it inconveniences you like i keep picking dog hair out of my clothes because he steals things from my laundry basket to lay on them while i'm gone and whenever i use my laptop i have to type with my arms in a parabola to make room for his head on my legs and yes it's kind of a far ride to my mom's house but she always remembers to have dairy-free options available just in case i stop at home and nick lives in another timezone so we have to plan our calls carefully to be sure he's available and i'm not in bed and i hate driving and looking for parking but it means i get to visit my friends and i hate doing dishes but i'll do a million if it means i get to throw a dinner party for everybody and i hate being cold but one time we stood outside in the snow for 5 hours waiting for a concert, bundled up and red-nosed

i always apologize about the ways i take up space even when they're medical like at a restaurant i usually have to take the moment to say i really am allergic, sorry, and feel like i am making everyone around me angry and i always apologize when i am too tired to be funny or when i actually really do need to take care of my human body because it feels like i'm making everything about-me and i always apologize for the ways that i become needy; how i get scared when we're high up (and no for real please get down it actually kind of stops being funny) or how i panic if i hear a loud noise i wasn't expecting or how it's been years but there are days when i'm still doing the same shit, still drowning

the trick about relaxing, i think. like the answer to why i couldn't trust the idea anyone actually likes me. was realizing that at some point i am going to be an inconvenience, which means that at some point i need to trust other people want me to take up space. and yes, some people have to take up a lot of space. but. i relish this little gratitude: making room for people and things in my life. i love picking the dog hairs out of my food - it means i get to have a dog. i love answering the phone at 3 in the morning - it means someone is on the other line, and i can help them weave through life. i love the little chores - it means i have something productive to do. so what if you take up space - it means this world gets to have you.

[in-a-different-way]

“There’s a point, around age twenty, when you have to choose whether to be like everybody else the rest of your life, or to make a virtue of your peculiarities.”

— Ursula K. Le Guin, The Dispossessed

[in-a-different-way]

“we survive. our bodies remind us of our failures, creak angry in the rain, tell us whispers of our pasts where blades ran in our dreams and we never remembered to eat; our bodies come with dyed hair and painted fingernails and chewed cuticles, we take longer to stand up and fall asleep. but the night comes hungry and we’ve learned to rely on our heartbeat, on the solid banging of a muscle that reminds us of living, on the aches that come from holding someone tightly, on the raw feeling of first kisses, on mornings and pancakes. our mouths don’t forget cake and our eyes never get tired of sunsets. the night sky is painted with our crying and she always remembers to bring out her best stars when we need something to wish on. and we wish on, on and over, our tongues numb with the words of it or just the feeling of wanting, a prayerful silence to fill the ache we can’t quite name nor swallow nor sate; we beg the moon bring it to us but what the “it” is we haven’t learned the name of yet. we survive. we skip class for six weeks but show up the seventh even though our feet drag us through floorboards, we undo ourselves from our beds where we mummified ourselves in hatred, we finally take a shower and even manage to sing. we loop our hands around flowers and our bodies around better friends, we glorify the shape of clouds, cling to unopened presents, praise the names of new books. the ringing numb that fills us abates in tidal waves, we splash in the undertow. we know. behind us are footprints of the ugly dance, of the wretched alive-but-undying, of the hillside burial we pictured ourselves coffined in. behind us is a stark white, an unspelled poem, a sheet we noosed and untied and stepped out of. behind us belongs to us, so we keep our noses forwards into the warm black beyond which knows nothing but promise. we survive. we use bleach to clean what won’t unstain and we don’t pour ourselves shotglasses of it. we drink water until we’re belly-full and we laugh louder than the earthquakes we danced in. we hang our arms around the shoulders of lonely loves, we make friends in high places, we crawl up there with them. we learn to love soft and gentle and mouthful, we learn to love the ache for reminding us we’ll always come home, we clutch abalone necklaces and braided hair and lovely, we learn again to filter ourselves through sunlight, to breathe deep even underwater, plant roots deeper, spring heads taller, show teeth wider, be braver, be fighter. we turn ourselves whale big, fill up rooms with our funny, spill over the sides with alive-ness, alive-est, glitter up the space with good vibes and kiss our bad pasts with red gloss because it’s sad that it happened but it wasn’t our fault, we grow up, be bolder, be brighter. we survive. we become survivor.”

— r.i.d//inkskinned (via inkskinned)

[in-a-different-way]

it’s strange because you don’t realize how far you’ve come until one day while you’re laughing you realize: wait, i’m actually laughing. 

that’s hard to explain, you know. that the numbness effects your humor, too. that, sure, you’ll laugh at things, but it feels tight, tiny, like you should be happy but you’re squeezing joy through a pinhole. sometimes you look at things and think: i should like this. i should feel good when i look at this. i should find this cute or funny or heartwarming. but you feel nothing.

it’s hard to track recovery. we live by the day. measure only how well we did in 24 hours. sometimes look as far as a week. we just keep walking. the first thing i got back was crying. you wouldn’t think you’d miss crying - painful, ugly, draining, plain annoying - but i did. i missed crying. for a long while i was sort of grateful to be crying over any small thing.

but the flood is stopping. and today i caught myself actually laughing.

[in-a-different-way]

we were outside and the street was wet and the sign was flickering. i wanted to be barefoot but knew it would be weird so instead i just sort of hovered around you while you smoked and the awnings dripped. it was dark here, the blue darkness of a night that you’re not supposed to be out in, a night that refuses you. not a warm one but our knees were uncovered.

you play with your lighter. we stand under the lamppost. in three months we’ll be going different places as fast as our legs can take us. right now, the summer is too young to have a name. so we stand there. i’m in love with you and i have been since middle school math class.

“doesn’t it bother you,” you ask, and the neon sign flickers, “that your dad says shit like that?”

i put my back against the wet lamppost. you play with your lighter. “does anybody feel good about their dad?” i ask.

you snort. then we’re silent. 

once when i was twelve my father threw a plate on the ground and later when he retold the story, he said that i had done it. or that i’d made him. i don’t remember exactly how he lied about it, only that he did, and that it was the moment i’d sort of recognized that he was 50 percent of me as a person and that was fucking terrifying.

the neon sign flickers. you play with the lighter and pass it over your fingertips. and then you say, “there’s a thin layer of molecules that stops me from being burned by this.”

okay. i watch you do it, even though i know i should be stopping you about it. it’s not the kind of night for stopping things. it’s the kind of night when we’re both the bad kind of quiet.

you unfold your free palm and hold it inches above the flame. “the further i get, the less it hurts,” you say. 

you don’t look up. you put your lighter in your pocket. we walk in the mist which is the resting state of rain. i feel like we’re too close to an emotion to speak of it, but i know what you’re saying. 

“don’t grow a molecule coat too thick you can’t feel warmth,” i say. “don’t go too far away.”  

you snort again. “too late.”

i look up. i can’t see the moon. i think of your lighter and the hand i want to hold and how both of us are running before the cement in the ground can take us. i think of how we are both playing with any lighter we find, balancing between the thin layer of dna and personality, of destiny and fate.

“it’s okay,” i say, “who needs fathers anyway.”

[in-a-different-way]

for a while i lived in an old house; the kind u.s americans don't often get to live in - living in a really old house here is super expensive. i found out right before i moved out that the house was actually so old that it features in a poem by emily dickinson.

i liked that there were footprints in front of the sink, worn into the hardwood. there were handprints on some of the handrails. we'd find secret marks from other tenants, little hints someone else had lived and died there. and yeah, there was a lot wrong with the house. there are a lot of DIY skills you learn when you are a grad student that cannot afford to pay someone else to do-it-for-ya. i shared the house with 8 others. the house always had this noise to it. sometimes that noise was really fucking awful.

in the mornings though, the sun would slant in thick amber skiens through the windows, and i'd be the first one up. i'd shuffle around, get showered in this tub that was trying to exit through the floor, get my clothes on. i would usually creep around in the kitchen until it was time to start waking everyone else up - some of them required multiple rounds of polite hey man we gotta go knocks. and it felt... outside of time. a loud kind of quiet.

the ghosts of the house always felt like they were humming in a melody just out of reach. i know people say that the witching hour happens in the dark, but i always felt like it occurred somewhere around 6:45 in the morning. like - for literal centuries, somebody stood here and did the dishes. for literal centuries, somebody else has been looking out the window to this tree in our garden. for literal centuries, people have been stubbing their toes and cracking their backs and complaining about the weather. something about that was so... strangely lovely.

i have to be honest. i'm not a history aficionado. i know, i know; it's tragic of me. i usually respond to "this thing is super old" by being like, wow! cool! and moving on. but this house was the first time i felt like the past was standing there. like it was breathing. like someone else was drying their hands with me. playing chess on the sofa. adding honey to their tea.

i grew up in an old town. like, literally, a few miles off of walden pond (as in of the walden). (also, relatedly, don't swim in walden, it's so unbelievably dirty). but my family didn't have "old house" kind of money. we had a barely-standing house from the 70's. history existed kind of... parallel to me. you had to go somewhere to be in history. your school would pack you up on a bus and take you to some "ye olden times" place and you'd see how they used to make glass or whatever, and then you'd go home to your LEDs. most museums were small and closed before 5. you knew history was, like, somewhere, but the only thing that was open was the mcdonalds and the mall.

i remember one of my seventh grade history teachers telling us - some day you'll see how long we've been human for and that thing has been puzzling me. i know the scientific number, technically.

the house had these little scars of use. my floors didn't actually touch the walls; i had to fill them with a stopgap to stop the wind. other people had shoved rags and pieces of newspaper. i know i've lost rings and earring backs down some of the floorboards. i think the raccoons that lived in our basement probably have collected a small fortune over the years. i complain out loud to myself about how awful the stairs are (uneven, steep, evil, turning, hard to get down while holding anything) and know - someone else has said this exact same thing.

when i was packing up to leave and doing a final deep cleaning, i found a note carved in the furthest corner in the narrow cave of my closet. a child's scrawled name, a faded paint handprint, the scrangly numbers: 1857.

we've been human for a long time. way back before we can remember.

[in-a-different-way]

it's stupid because you've been on the earth for a while now and every time someone says oh you're a feminist, wait until you need to open a jar or yeah everyone wants equal rights until it's time to pay the bill huh you mostly just grit your teeth and suffer through it because you've been up and down that argument before about a million times.

so you talk to your bathroom mirror about it instead, addressing your image with the snarl that lives in the tiger of your chest: are you aware women only got the right to open a credit card during my mother's life? the ECOA was passed in 1974. if you want, i could ask her to pay.

interesting that their biggest argument against feminism is just "sometimes you'll need help with things, and then you'll be sorry". interesting that they think of women as being damsels in distress and they can swoop in and save you. when you ask someone to take the trash out, you're just asking for support - it's not a gendered thing. interesting that they think of these tiny moments where they can offer any service to their community as "proof" that men are secretly just-better-than-women. that everyone owes men for these small moments, just because they may occasionally take on a tiny request. interesting.

the bathroom mirror isn't useful. murmuring your soliloquies into your shower. delivering the presidential speech that about how there should be no discussion on rights, justice, and equality.

but there's something deeply sad in there, too. because at the core of it, it's that you're always being reminded of your weakest moments. the times you've realized - oh fuck, i really am not strong enough. the times you've had to call your dad because, yeah, you don't know how a car works. the times where you were horrifically, terribly - acting like a girl.

because god forbid one of those men sees you like that. something in their eyes just... lights up. like you're an emblem of everything they've always believed down-deep. you're having a bad day; you fuck up the parallel park. when you get out of a car, a man says women! like he's been waiting to drop that particular bomb. your family is falling apart and you're stressed at your job and you don't have time to grocery shop but when you raise your voice after being interrupted; your coworker's eyebrows shoot up. okay, let's calm down for a moment. later, he's laughing with friends, you hear him joke - and yet they say not enough women get a promotion.

over and over again; that resounding belief: sure but you all actually secretly love the patriarchy. because god forbid you ever need a man to pull you out of a burning building. god forbid you ever stand on your own two feet. you are constantly in the space of either proving them wrong or proving them right - but you always have to be proving something. and it's a tuesday, and you come up on one of these fucking moments where suddenly and fucking terribly - you're weak.

you need someone to just fucking help you. like literally, anyone else. fuck, goddamn it, you can't get this stupid cap open. you're having a flare up of your carpal tunnel. you've already tried using a towel and even your teeth.

it's just... the look of that sly fucking triumph on his face. like see? nobody's really a feminist. not really. you come crawling back whenever you need me. this is why things can't change. because you know you'd be sorry.

[in-a-different-way]

i keep thinking about hobbies and how i often spill over myself to pick up new ones. i have adhd, i end up trying something for like a month and then just getting far enough in it that i move on, satisfied.

and that should be fine; but it's never fine.

i am a pretty decent artist; but i can't just make art for my dnd campaign, i should be selling dnd maps and character designs and scene setting pieces. i can't just make my friends matching earrings, i need to get an etsy and ship them internationally and take bulk orders. i make pretty good props and decorations and use them to throw my friends parties - but i should be running a party planning business and start taking paying clients and networking and putting my skills to actual use.

for some reason, i never figured out the specifics of pottery. it was a fun class and i enjoyed myself - and still, i'm embarrassed, years later, that i put in all that useless effort. everything i make has to be stunning. stellar. i should have applied myself more. maybe i'm too lazy. maybe i'm broken and selfish and needy. actually creative people would have kept going; they would be bettering themselves at every possible opportunity.

we find ourselves in this trap, even accidentally: we need to commodify our time, because it is a commodity. if we spend our efforts and our time not earning, isn't that the same thing as burning free money? and god forbid you ever take up a hobby that ends up being more expensive than you thought. you sit in your car and you look at the receipt and in your head you hear a conversation that isn't even happening - your mom or your friend or your partner all saying oh great. not this shit again. it's always something with you, and it never actually means anything.

i have realized this horrible thing, recently - i'll get excited to start a project, pick up a new hobby. and then i just... stop myself. i start thinking about the amount of time it will take, and how it'll look in my monthly budget. what if i can't even produce a good enough final product. sure, it's exciting to think about how i could make my friend her own custom dice. but i'm just polluting the earth if i don't get it right. better not bother. better not try.

restless, i get caught in the negative space. the feeling that oh god, i want to create. and that horrible sense - yeah, but i don't have the time to just put to waste.

[in-a-different-way]

you get used to it, but it's tiring, because they need you to understand your own life as a series of goalposts. what college are you going to, what's your major going to be, whatcha gonna do with that, oh where will you settle down, when can i expect grandkids.

for the longest time my goals have been so blurry that they track into each other, their undefined edges slipping quietly back into the soft night. today i want to be a writer; tomorrow i will want to be a doctor, later i will wish i took that law school free ride. how the fuck do people just know what they want to do with their life?

where do you want to be in five years? i want to be alive; which is a huge step for me. ten years ago i would have said i want to be asleep and meant i hope that i'm dead by then.

but i want a yellow kitchen and a stand mixer. i want a garden and a fruit tree (cherry, if i can make that happen) and a big yard for my dogs to play in. i want to come home and read poetry out loud to someone and have them close their eyes to listen. i want a summer watergun fight. i want to make snowmen. i want to be the house to go to for halloween. i want my life to settle around me in a softness, for it to lay down gently. if i am very, very, very lucky, i want to travel; finally go someplace overseas.

of course i don't know what i want to be doing professionally. what i actually want to be doing is curling up beside my dog, settling in to read. i want to be making myself a cup of good coffee.

i can't answer the other questions. whenever people asked me what do you want to be when you grow up, i used to say i hope i'm happy.

i hope i'm still kind, five years from now. i hope i never get jaded and mean. i hope i have stayed in therapy. what do you picture yourself doing? when will you actually be an adult about this? why are you so afraid of being ambitious?

am i not ambitious? the other day i rearranged my furniture which doesn't quite fit into my apartment. i watered my plants. i'm going to try to propagate a cherry seed. my five year goal is to spend more time laughing. to lie down in a patch of sunwarm moss. to relax for a minute. to close my eyes and think oh thank god. this is why i stayed. this is finally it.

[in-a-different-way]

this is sort of pathetic, but when you were younger, you were sort of puzzled by the cartoon representations of fathers: how a kid would be outside with a mitt, waiting to play catch.

it's not that your father never played catch with you, but you also didn't like when he did. something about a hard ball coming quickly towards your face doesn't seem exciting. not that you'd ever say you don't trust him. you trust him, right?

it's not like he never tried to teach you anything. or never tried to parent. on rare days, a strange person would walk in your father's skin. bright, happy, magnificent. this version of your father was so cheerful and charismatic that you would do anything to keep him. and this is the version of your father that would laugh and gently coax you try again. this is the version of your father that would break down the small elements of a problem and point them out so you have an easier time with them.

as a kid, those days happened more often. but somewhere around 11, you started being too much of a person, and he was often cross about it. when he'd try to sit you down to learn something, you spent the whole time with your shoulders around your ears, nervous, uncertain. terrified because you didn't immediately understand how to navigate something. worried you will run out of his goodwill and then you will have the Other Father back, and you will have ruined a good day for your entire family. something about you being visibly afraid - it just made him angry. he would accuse you of not wanting to learn and storm away.

on tv, it's not like there's a lot of versions of men-who-are-mostly-fathers. they can be good dads, but usually their stories are not told in the household. so it's normal that your father is there, but he's never around. you know he was in the house, somewhere, it's just not that you guys ever... "hung out". he just seemed to get kind of bored of you, annoyed you weren't made in his perfect image. frustrated with how much energy it took to raise a kid. over time, you kind of adopt a bittersweet band around your throat - he knows nothing about me. he says at least i never abandoned my family.

and it's technically - technically - true. he was there for you. sometimes he even made an effort and made it to the big moments; the graduations and the dance recitals. he grins and tells everyone that he taught you. it almost erases the days in between, where he complains because you need a ride to school. the weeks that go by where he doesn't actually ever speak to you. the times you say i am struggling and he says figure it out on your own. i can't help you.

and that's fine! that's all fine. you can call him if you are having a problem with your car. or if you need a ride to the hospital. he loves playing hero, he just doesn't like the actual work that comes with being a father. and you've kind of made your peace with that; because you had to, because you don't want to live your life like he does; the whole world at a managed distance, a little rotating and controlled orb he can witness and take credit for but never truly love.

as an adult, you are rewatching some dumb cartoon - and again, the child standing in the rain, with a mitt, waiting for their father to come play catch. as an adult, there's this strange creeping dread - this little thing? this little thing, and their dad can't even show up for that? oh god, holyshit, it's not about the mitt, is it. oh god, holyshit, your father spent most of your life leaving you hanging.

[in-a-different-way]

something i've been thinking a lot about is that just surviving is often both the least rewarding recovery experience and also the absolute most critical skill.

i think many of us have spent the last few years of our life just... holding the line. our legs trembling under all that weight. many of us backslid in the sand; and that was agonizing. we have spent so much of our life pushing, and to be forced backwards... we are already so exhausted. it is unimaginable to think we must remake the progress that had already been hard-won.

there's a graph that exists of how you can roughly expect any artistic skill to grow. we all go through periods of rapid growth and discovery; only to plateau. there is often a little sorrow in the plateau, because we're not moving quickly. we don't see those huge strides. there's no obvious sense we're learning.

but the art we're making in that plateau matters. it can still be effective, evocative, exciting. you can still feel inspired, happy, creative in that plateau; because the skills you have are growing, it's just that you're a spot where you don't need to focus on skill-building, you've finally reached a place where you can focus on actually making things. and at some point, without you expecting it, and as long as you work for it - another sharp increase in skill will happen. if you ask any of us how we did it, most of us would tell you the same thing: i just kept trying.

i have spent a lot of my life believing that just-surviving was the same thing as stagnating. i don't have any tangible goals or desires and the idea of making longterm plans makes me want to set my hair on fire. i am fucking tired. i don't want another year of scrambling, of falling down, of slipping in the mud. I love my friends, but i'm watching them settle down, have a life, get what they want: and i'm still here, in the part where i beg my life to be barely functional.

i think... maybe this whole time it wasn't standing still. it was still learning. it was still growing. i just got used to the plateau and forgot that "even surviving" isn't something i used to be able to take for granted. that in all this horrible, thankless effort - certain things are easy enough now. i can forget them.

i have spent so much time hating that i'm not getting better faster. i forgot that it used to be unthinkable to me to even consider recovery. these last years; i've been comparing my plateau to my eras of quick-discovery. i've been unfair to myself. no, the progress isn't as obvious. that doesn't mean it's not still-happening.

we make the mistake of saying "this year i want to live, not just survive," as if the effort of just surviving is useless, or could be shrugged off. the effort of surviving is beautiful. your years spent like barely-here are enough. you're not wasting time. you're not wasting your one precious life. "just holding on" means you were able to actually find and grab the rope. you're here; and the effort of your survival is work. you've been seeking the sky when it used to be impossible to imagine putting down roots. i know it is hard, and i hope you are able to feel better soon. i hope we both reach our next quick-climb. and i know - the weight might never ease up.

it's just that, over time, with effort: we will get strong enough.

[in-a-different-way]

something i've been thinking a lot about is that just surviving is often both the least rewarding recovery experience and also the absolute most critical skill.

i think many of us have spent the last few years of our life just... holding the line. our legs trembling under all that weight. many of us backslid in the sand; and that was agonizing. we have spent so much of our life pushing, and to be forced backwards... we are already so exhausted. it is unimaginable to think we must remake the progress that had already been hard-won.

there's a graph that exists of how you can roughly expect any artistic skill to grow. we all go through periods of rapid growth and discovery; only to plateau. there is often a little sorrow in the plateau, because we're not moving quickly. we don't see those huge strides. there's no obvious sense we're learning.

but the art we're making in that plateau matters. it can still be effective, evocative, exciting. you can still feel inspired, happy, creative in that plateau; because the skills you have are growing, it's just that you're a spot where you don't need to focus on skill-building, you've finally reached a place where you can focus on actually making things. and at some point, without you expecting it, and as long as you work for it - another sharp increase in skill will happen. if you ask any of us how we did it, most of us would tell you the same thing: i just kept trying.

i have spent a lot of my life believing that just-surviving was the same thing as stagnating. i don't have any tangible goals or desires and the idea of making longterm plans makes me want to set my hair on fire. i am fucking tired. i don't want another year of scrambling, of falling down, of slipping in the mud. I love my friends, but i'm watching them settle down, have a life, get what they want: and i'm still here, in the part where i beg my life to be barely functional.

i think... maybe this whole time it wasn't standing still. it was still learning. it was still growing. i just got used to the plateau and forgot that "even surviving" isn't something i used to be able to take for granted. that in all this horrible, thankless effort - certain things are easy enough now. i can forget them.

i have spent so much time hating that i'm not getting better faster. i forgot that it used to be unthinkable to me to even consider recovery. these last years; i've been comparing my plateau to my eras of quick-discovery. i've been unfair to myself. no, the progress isn't as obvious. that doesn't mean it's not still-happening.

we make the mistake of saying "this year i want to live, not just survive," as if the effort of just surviving is useless, or could be shrugged off. the effort of surviving is beautiful. your years spent like barely-here are enough. you're not wasting time. you're not wasting your one precious life. "just holding on" means you were able to actually find and grab the rope. you're here; and the effort of your survival is work. you've been seeking the sky when it used to be impossible to imagine putting down roots. i know it is hard, and i hope you are able to feel better soon. i hope we both reach our next quick-climb. and i know - the weight might never ease up.

it's just that, over time, with effort: we will get strong enough.

[in-a-different-way]

something bad happened to you, and you died, and you came back wrong.

not wrong all the way. the little ways. you forget important dates, stopped going out with friends. it's harder to make you smile. you're apathetic towards things you used to love, afraid of places you used to go to cheer up. quieter. flinching. different.

you came back for love. you're still here for love. what pulled you back was a brightness so loud that even death couldn't outshout it. death heard the call and smiled at you and said okay. go home. somebody is waiting for you.

but you came back different. like lot's wife; you've turned into salt. you used to chirp through life in hops and skips; but now you lose skin just standing up. you have to move slower, skimming across this world without-touching-it. most things feel dull - until they're suddenly all-too-much. life, and being alive just rushes up and over you and you get hopelessly crushed.

you try to explain it to them: it is ugly, but this is what you are, now. the huge golden hoop of your halo now a little bronze ring. you are still watering your plants and wearing the same clothes. after all, you worked hard to come home. this life; so odd and off-color, now that you are wrong.

but they waited for you - it's just that they wanted the "you" that happened before this. the "you "that could sing in the show and hug people tight and look at a blade without breaking down to cry. the you with a smile in pictures. god, holyshit, it's like looking at a completely different person, isn't it. that other-you; the one they actually wanted.

you are the consolation prize. you are the body that forgot the ghost. you are the memory of the bad thing, and the death after; like you are wearing that memory as a banner. you are a fragment, an assembly. simulacrum. you don't make eye contact in mirrors, afraid the light will glance off and your true nature will flash back at you.

you hear them talk about it in their hushed, desperate whispers. sometimes they even admit it to your face; harsh and violent, acid thrown at christmas dinner. god, can you just fucking be normal again. you do not remember what normal is. you had to climb so far to get back here; you are far too exhausted. you want to open the glass door of your heart and show all the gears. can you help resolve whatever got messed up?

you try so, so hard. you came back for them. because you believed they would love you, even when you were so horribly broken. because you believed they would be patient. because you believed unconditional meant "without exception." you cannot do things the same way. you just get tired too quickly these days.

you want to put them on a couch and pour them the tea with hands that shake more than they remember. you want to line them up and draw them a map of where you have had to wander. you want to show every bruise in a backsplash; the little helpless ant of your soul carrying all that weight, over and over. you want to say: yes! it is different! but i did it for love!

you want to say: "i'm not the same, but i'm yours and i'm here. can that be enough?"

[in-a-different-way]

you wanted to be a good friend, because you loved your friends, but the truth was that everyone else somehow had a pamphlet on being normal that you never received. most of the time you learn by trial-and-error. you are terrified of the next big mistake you make, because it seems like the rules are completely arbitrary.

you've learned to keep the prickly parts of your personality in a stormcloud under your bed - as if they're a second version of you; one that will make your friends hate you. it feels feral, burning, ugly.

instead, you have assembled habits based on the statistical likelihood of pleasing others. you're a good listener, which is to say - if you do speak up, you might end up saying the wrong thing and scaring off someone, but people tend to like someone-who-listens. or you've got no true desires or goals, because people like it when you're passive, mutable. you're "not easy to fluster" which is to say - your emotions are fundamentally uninteresting to others around you; so you've learned to control them to a degree that you can no longer really feel them happening.

you have long suspected something is wrong with you, but most of the time, googling doesn't help. you are so-used to helping-yourself, alone and with no handbook. the reek of your real self feels more like a horrible joke - you wake up, and, despite all your preparations, suddenly the whole house is full of smoke. the real you is someone waiting to ruin your other-life, the one where you're normal and happy. the real-self is unpredictable, angry.

your real self snarls when people infantilize the whole situation. because if you were really suffering, everyone seems to think you'd be completely unable to cope. but you already learned the rules, so you do know how to cope, and you have fucking been coping. it's not black-and-white. it's not that you are healed during the other times - it's just that you're able to fucking try. and honestly, whenever you show symptoms, it's a really fucking bad sign.

because the symptoms you have are ugly and unmanageable for others. your symptoms aren't waifish white girl things. they're annoying and complicated. they will be the subject of so many pretentious instagram reels. if they cared about you, they'd just show up on time. you care, a lot, so deeply it burns you. you like to picture a world where the comments read if they loved you, they'd never need glasses to see. but since that's a rule you've seen repeated - "one must never be late or you are a bad friend" - you constantly worry about being late and leave agonizingly early. there are no words for how you feel when you're still late; no matter how hard you were trying.

so you have to make up for it. you have to make up for that little horrible real you that you keep locked in a cabinet. you are bad at answering emails so every project you make has to be perfect. you are weird and sensitive so you have to learn to be funny and interesting. you are an inconvenience to others, so you become as smooth as possible, buffing out all the rough parts.

all this. all this. so people can pass their hands over you and just tell you just the once -how good you are. you're a good friend. you're loveable.

[in-a-different-way]

my 10 yr high school reunion is coming up in november. does anyone wanna be my fake gf for it. i was super bullied in high school but i'm hot now so i obviously am only going to do lying, crime, and theft.

pros: - you can design your own character. i love improv games and will go along with whatever bit you desire - there's an open bar - you don't know any of these people and i don't care about any of these people, which is the closest either of us will ever get to diplomatic immunity. all bets are off. go hog wild

cons: - im devastatingly pretty & funny & charming and you will fall in love with me - some of the adults present will be business majors. i cannot do anything about that im sorry. - it is a high school reunion, which is the closest either of us will ever get to a nuclear waste site

[in-a-different-way]

oh. an ode to trying. when it is enough, just to love something enough to keep-being-bad-at-it.

i am not talented in dance. i am not being humble; i just don't have the effervescent something that belies talent. when i write, i know what talent looks and feels and slides like. how it tips. i've been dancing just as long as i've been writing. i'm just better at the writing bit.

but i dance anyway. i dance around my kitchen and i practice the arms for the choreo in my car and i google tips. i get up early on weekends to go to classes. even though i have proficient skill, i will never be a soloist or even particularly good at it.

there is this idea that to not be the best at a passion is tantamount to failing. you try out ice skating but cannot immediately land a turn; which means you aren't going to be a skater, which means you should stop skating altogether. you only knit scarves and don't know how to cast off; just give up. either you go to RISD and get a "real position" as an animator or you're not really an artist.

an ode to what you keep anyway. an ode to passion and drive just for the enjoyment of it. i know we say it's better to try and fail but what if failure was never really a part of it? what if there is no failure here, because love and effort are already successes?

there is no such thing as an effort of love wasted. if it ever brings you peace or joy or excitement - it was worth it.

every doodle in your margins, anime-eye-on-the-homework as a kid. the calligraphy pens while you were trying out new handwriting. the notebooks with short stories where everyone dies in the end. never being first chair in band as a kid, but as an adult still playing your instrument. trying literally because it feels good to try.

i just started adult classes in portrait drawing. i never got taught when i was younger, and, again, i have no natural talent. i am often frustrated, staring at what i made, wondering why i'm not excellent yet.

but i leave knowing - i tried. and trying is worth it.